


Ratapope

by TiredChips



Category: Outer Banks (TV)
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, JJ is big mad, M/M, Slow To Update, Workplace Relationship, kitchen romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:07:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29712774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiredChips/pseuds/TiredChips
Summary: AU. JJ Maybanks is a sous-chef. He worked hard to get to where he is. And he likes the way his kitchen runs. Only he has a problem : he can't stand the new dishwasher.Collection of drabbles
Relationships: JJ/Pope (Outer Banks)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	1. JJ

It’s a tough job, but he is good at it. He had started as a busboy and out of spite rather than work-ethic, slowly climbed his way up to his current position. Now he’s responsible for the stock, oversees three commis chefs and it’s starting to feel like he finally found his place, his staff, a sort of family. Leading the kitchen through a Saturday night service, cursing and shouting but surviving and then thriving, the ballet of the grill, and the stove, and the sauces, the plates leaving the counter as soon as he hits the call bell, it’s all exhilarating.

Kind of reminds him of the thrill of those unauthorized boat races in high school.

But then a new dishes guy arrives and somehow fucks with the vibe. He’s a student who only comes to the night shift, and he doesn't belong there at all. JJ resents him because he’s not as efficient as the last one and he’s different from everyone here and he looks so pretentious, like...like he feels superior to the rest of them. Because this is just an interim job to him. Like the grease and burning vapors are just temporary embarrassments and soon he'll be far away from the sweaty shifts.

Honestly, the kid is super weird. He keeps to himself and never says anything when everyone in the kitchen is busting each other’s balls and yelling across the room. But he’s not deaf or anything. Just annoyingly quiet.

Only JJ comes to realize that although Pope (what kind of name is Pope) moves almost slowly, seemingly lost in his own world, he’s actually very organized. Everything is neat and immaculate, and he’s intensely focused on his job.

___________

And then JJ starts to burn himself. Once. Twice. Three times. Like he’s a fucking commis again, learning how to deal with an 8 burner stove on a hectic lunch. Because he is the one who can’t focus. When he squeals for the fourth time this week, hand frenetically flapping in the air, Kelce, one of the commis, starts to roast him about it.

So JJ loses it on his staff, barks that if they don’t want their balls to be served up _à la carte_ , they better shut their mouths and start cooking. The kitchen remains silent for the rest of the service.

He’s taking a cigarette break afterward, bandaged hand still shaking. When he leans his head back on the brick, he sees Pope coming out of the building, dressed in civil, ready to go back home. Pope nods him goodnight and leaves, his silhouette disappearing in the empty street, and JJ asks himself what the fuck is wrong with him.


	2. Pope

Pope is anxious about everything, but he never shows it. Being a med student is so much more stressful than being an aspiring med student, and he knows it's only going to get worse next year, when he'll start working as an intern. Back home, when the pressure got too much, he could always go on a hike with his friends, ride his bike on the dirt roads. But he doesn't have that luxury now. During his free time, he has to find a way to make money, because his scholarship only covers his tuition, not the cost of merely exhisting in this giant city.

So his roommate gets him his old job, a dishwasher in a bougie restaurant, and soon Pope's evenings are spent elbow deep in scorching hot water, scrubbing and rinsing and throwing away food that costs more than his monthly budget. But unexpectedly, he loves it. It's the only moment of the day he feels a buzz, completely lost in the moment.

The energy of the kitchen, the boastful vibe of the staff, the never-ending arrival of new plates, glasses, and kitchen tools to wash, it feels like running towards work, juggling and sticking the landing. And when the service slows down, the sporadic ceramic dessert bowl and handmade teaspoon falling under his care, he starts to relax for the first time in the day. He drains the huge sinks and dishwashers, disinfects his station, and neatly piles the kitchenware. Everything is shiny, immaculate, perfect. When he takes off his gloves, it's almost like a high, such a contrast to school where there is no end-line in sight, no relief to expect.

One night he prepares to leave, but as he’s stepping outside someone hails him.

"Hey, Dishes."

He turns around. A guy his age in a chef's apron is raising his eyebrows at him. Pope doesn't know his name but he's seen him shout at other people here and there. He hopes it's not his turn to get yelled at. Or worse, get fired. He really can't afford to lose this job, and now it's more of a mental health issue than a financial one, to be honest. He readies himself to defend his work, when he realizes he hasn't been paying attention to what was just said to him. Oh boy. He's definitely getting fired now.

"Sorry, I...um didn't hear what you just said"

The chef frowns, stares at him for a nerve-racking amount of time.

"I said, why are you never with us for the staff diner? We eat just before service, at 5."

The tone is almost accusatory. Like it's somehow offensive that a member of the staff doesn't make an act of presence. Maybe he missed some important information? No one told him he had to go, but perhaps this one of the places where being friends with your co-workers is mandatory, which sounds like a nightmare to Pope.

"Oh. Well, um. I don't think I can afford it."

"What? What are you talking about ?"

"Isn't it taken out of your paycheck when you eat there ?"

He doesn't know what was humorous about what he said, but there's a hint of amusement in his interlocutor's voice.

"We’re not at Mcdonald's, dude. It’s free. Call it the perks of the gig. I uh. Make the food for everyone. You should come. Let the staff get to know you."

And with these words, he turns around and leaves a perplexed Pope behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make my heart sing!


	3. The staff Dinner

Sous-chef Maybank is struggling in the kitchen. But this time, he's almost alone. Only Kelce is there, peeling vegetables and rambling about whatever the fuck. JJ is looking at the prepped food with no idea what to do with it. Usually, inspiration flows, and he never needs to makes plans for the staff dinner. Just very simple dishes with the quality ingredients they get to buy. Who knows where that comes from. It's not like Luke taught him anything about the art of cooking. Or his mother, wherever she was. But when his boss, the owner of the Mayflower, asked him if he wanted to be in the kitchen after one of the commis came in high as a kite, it appeared that he had something like a natural knack for it. He'd always been a fast learner and could throw himself into anything he was passionate about, but it's like he just knew how flavors worked. And there he was, with no formal training, not even a high school diploma, at a job some culinary school graduates would kill to have.

Well that was fine and dandy, but none of it seemed to matter right now. He hadn't the tiniest clue about what to make today. And he refused to think about why. Why. Why did he have to invite the kid to eat with them? Screwing with his head in the middle of work was unsettling enough so why did he have to invite him to just...come and hang out more? So he could fuck up the most festive moment of the workday? And somehow, somehow, he already was.

With a sigh, JJ drizzled olive oil in a pan, putting himself in motion in hope that inspiration would strike. 

"Hey, Maybanks! Are you even listening to me? You're awfully quiet today. Did the stove get your tongue, too?"

JJ rolled his eyes but smiled as he started throwing random aromatics in the sizzling oil.

"Now, there's my chef! I thought you were going to stab me the other day."  
"Yeah, well that makes two of us. Count yourself lucky that I am a magnanimous individual."  
"I do chef. Thank you so much, chef. Feel free to slap me if I ever slip again che..."  
Kelce narrowly dodged a mighty chunk of turnip flying his way.  
"Stop goofin' around and help me out here. I don't know what to make for you guys today."  
"Love you too, chef. You know what, instead of abusing me with them you could roast some of those fine golden-ball turnips with the sea mullet you brought in this morning. Isn't that from your state anyway? Just make it like you would at home."

JJ nodded. Ok. That, he could do.  
_______  


So he had shown up after all. There he was, scrubbing his neck, standing awkwardly in line with the others. Moving around the table to grab a plate, cutlery, and then helping themselves to some food. He still looked out of place among the joyous bunch, too serious and above the chatter, like a math teacher chaperoning a school trip. He appeared different under the restaurant's softer lighting. JJ spied him sitting next to Cameron, the only girl on the kitchen staff. The boy put some grilled fish in his mouth, chewed like he did everything, pointedly, and then nodded to himself slowly.

He liked it.  
Something relaxed in JJ, which he found aggravating. Who fucking cared if the guy enjoyed his meal? Everything he served was delicious anyway.  
Yet he was feeling relieved, almost giddy. He leaned back on his chair and forced himself to focus on his plate and the conversation between Kelce and his neighbor.  


"...like, yesterday: she came back twice to say how much so and so liked the new menu. Dude, it is sooo obvious she was just trying to find a reason to come back here. I think she's got her eyes set on someone."  
"Kelce, if by "someone" you mean you, you're even dumber than I thought you were, which is saying a lot."  
"Screw you, man! Why not me? I'm a good-looking male. Women love that broad-shouldered 6'2 chocolate mountain. Just ask your mama, she knows."  


JJ grinned, already shaking his head.  
  
"Who you talking about? And Kelce, for the record, Mrs. Guthbert was winking at me."  
"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Sorry we can't all have the good-looks of Chef Maybank, with his piercing blue eyes and lady-killer smile."  
"You mean these fucked-up things?" JJ pulled his lower lip to reveal slightly crooked teeth.  
"Precisely. This mouth right here is why Chef Peterkin put you in charge of the kitchen. I'm sure you charmed her with your wicked ways." Kelce punctuated his retorque with a vulgar sign of fingers and tongue before getting slapped behind the head.  
"What's wrong with you dude! Don't talk about her that way!"  
Kelce shrugged while rubbing his skull. "Alright, alright, defend your sugar lady. I'm just saying. Miss Kiara could be into me. Why else would she come in the kitchen to say hello three times a service? She doesn't even work front of house anymore."  
Topper interjected again.  
"In any case, I don't think it's smart to start rumors about the owner's daughter, Kelce. If I were you, I'd keep my mouth shut."

JJ looked up to see Cameron and Pope talking together, drank in their expressions as Pope responded to something she said. What could they possibly be talking about? Cameron wasn't the most talkative person in the world either. Maybe that's why they were connecting. He saw her mimicking something, a fake angry frown on her face as she gestured violently. She held her forearm dramatically while flailing her fingers.

Pope chuckled, the movement slowly curling upward the deep cupid bow of his lips. 

The motherfucker was laughing about him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are my salted caramel pop-corns!


	4. The Masseter

The masseter is the muscle that runs from the cheekbone to the lower jaw and brings the teeth back together to grind up food. The masseter is the strongest muscle in the human body. Obviously so, since being able to swallow food is one of the most important survival skills. Pope massaged his tired eyes and let his mind drift away from the lecture a little. His hands felt dry, even with gloves the hot water has started to damage his sensitive skin. He's exhausted, and he wants to nap so badly, but he finds a way to will himself into taking notes, even though he knows about the face muscles already. And the importance of eating. And the joy of it he found again, after 5 years of surviving almost exclusively on struggle meals and whatever he and his roommate could afford.  


But ever since he started dining at the restaurant, it's like he remembers what food is all about. His professor's voice lulls him to sleep and he tries very hard to stay upright. Lately, he's found a sort of fatigue that never leaves him. Something deeper than the accumulation of late nights and early mornings. Something more insidious. He doesn't want to confront it but he knows that he used to care more, at some point. About his future, about his present, about what he was going to do this weekend. Now it's like waiting for a recess that never comes. The days and weeks come by and they only bring more days and weeks. The only place he feels connected to anything right now is the restaurant.

He's been working here a month and a half now, and Sarah has become the first real friend - it's a bit early to call her a friend but they get along so well, and yeah, she's the closest thing to the real thing since he arrived in the city. He spent his undergraduate years going back home every weekend to help his dad with the business and his first year of med school desperately trying to tackle the work they were assigned. And it's not like the insanely competitive atmosphere is helping to make acquaintances. No one studies together here, the library next to the main building a small warzone of strategically placed binders meant to separate the students from each other. Pope heard horror stories about stolen notes and sabotaged lectures and saved himself the headache of trying to bond with peers.  
He can't wait for the time he will finally be able to work as a forensic doctor. He longs for the quiet days of searching for answers in the already decaying bodies. He always thought there was something beautiful about trying to understand death because that's how you found out that it was still living. Evolving. Changing.  
Then why does he feel so stuck right now?

_________

He doesn't know what is on the menu today but it smells so delicious that his stomach is growling as soon as he passes the service door. The air is floating with hints of lemongrass, fresh basil, and something spicy and it lifts his spirits up a bit. He leaves his stuff at his locker and comes to the staff lounge, a practical little space between the kitchen and the front of the house, and for once, he's one of the first to arrive. There's only a couple of people here, and Sarah is not one of them.  
Pope salutes Topper and the guy next to him, whose name he can never remember, and at this point, he's too embarrassed to ask. He's the only other black dude in the kitchen but he doesn't resemble Pope at all: he's bigger and one hundred percent more extroverted, always cracking jokes at everyone and especially at who he finally came to understand was the sous-Chef, Maybank. Sous-chef Maybank who hates his guts, apparently. Every time Pope salutes him, he ignores him completely. This guy invited him to come and eat with the rest of them then decided never to acknowledge his presence again. Sarah swears he's usually nice, but Pope doubts he's ever going to see that side of him. It's a shame, really. Because he's beautiful. The type of face that makes Pope swipe left on tinder because he doesn't need that kind of pressure in his life.  


As he's leaving the restaurant, he nods his usual goodbye to Maybank, who's smoking outside. But the prick ignores him again. And Pope doesn't know if it's the general exhaustion of these couple of weeks or what but something in him snaps. He stops in the middle of the narrow street. Observes the man who's leaning against the wall, head bent towards the ground. His blonde hair a fuzzy halo made brighter by the street lamp. His jaw clenches every time he releases a blow of smoke and Pope can't help but admire the subtle work of the buccinator angling itself with the masseter. Maybank frowns, realizing that Pope's still not budging, and turns his head slightly.  
Neither of them moves.  
With a sigh, Maybank crushes his cigarette on the wall and finally faces him. He arches a brow that's meant to be a question. But his expression is so painfully exasperated that it almost makes Pope chuckle.  
"I just wanted to say goodnight, Chef. See you tomorrow."

As he leaves, a smirk on his lips, Pope thinks that a nemesis at work is maybe all the inspiration he needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any comment is cherished :)

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written fanfiction since 2012, and never in english. But this pairing has its claws on me. I feel alive, babyy
> 
> Comments are my favorite type of food!


End file.
